“Sure. His comin’ means things. Maybe it’s only that Sinclair has—ain’t around. It looks that way.”
Pideau was endeavoring to draw Annette into the open. He was trying to test out the thing his mind had decided was the cause of her new manner. He knew what Sinclair meant to her. He had seen Sinclair lying dead, and the Wolf’s gun lying beside his body. And he wanted to find out just how much the girl knew of the shooting, and that which had brought it about.
Annette shrugged. Her father’s efforts were obvious to her.
“Yes. It looks that way,” she replied.
Pideau drank half his coffee and shook his head.
“It ain’t the liquor. It ain’t our play. It’s Sinclair, sure. Queer about Sinclair.”
Annette looked straight into the black eyes.
“Yes,” was all she replied, and turned away.
“Sinclair was good to you?”
Annette nodded as she was going.